Page 98 of Nobody's Fool

Osorio possesses the kind of world-weary face only we cops seem to cultivate. His skin has a leathered tan that can only be derived from years of sun exposure. “What do you want from me, Mr. Kierce?”

“None of this surprises you, does it?”

Osorio rubs his chin. “You came to Spain as an American college student, correct?”

“I’d just graduated.”

“Backpacking with friends through Europe?”

“Something like that.”

“And when you reported this to me, did you tell me the whole story? Or did you leave out some key details?”

“I left out some key details,” I say.

Osorio strokes his chin. “Do you still think you saw a murdered woman that day?”

“No.” Then I add, “So you do remember me?”

Osorio chooses not to answer. “You probably figured out by now that you were scammed.”

“And you knew right away,” I say.

“Yes. It wasn’t an uncommon crime, but your case was somewhat unusual.”

“In what way?”

“Various forms of that con were common in those days. A girl would seduce a young tourist. The mark, if you will. She would wait until the mark was comfortable and then she’d rob him. The problem was, the mark would often report it to the police. He would be able to identify her. She would have to move on or at least change locations. So some con artists became, shall we say, more creative. They’d fake an illness or something worse and convince the mark it was his fault. The mark would run in a panic and never report it. Because if he did, he feared he’d end up in jail. Sound familiar?”

“It does.”

Osorio grins. “That’s why you didn’t tell me everything. You’d have implicated yourself, wouldn’t you have?”

“I would, yes,” I admit.

“Most scams were simpler. The woman would fake a drug overdose. The accomplice would say something like, ‘You bought the drugs’ or ‘When we take her to the hospital, they’ll arrest you for possession, just go.’ So the mark would take the out. They never really cared about the girl. She was just fun or sex to them. Your con—a deadwoman with a knife in her chest or whatever—those were rare. Or who knows, maybe a lot of people got conned that way, but to your credit, you were one of the few, maybe the only one, who still felt morally obligated to report it.”

“Yeah, I’m great,” I say, flashing back to the last time I was in the station. “You could have told me. You could have let me off the hook.”

“I planned to,” he replies. “I left a message at your hostel. But you ran home, remember?”

“You still could have called.”

“I didn’t have your phone number. You also didn’t come fully clean with me. I had no obligation to follow up.”

“Or maybe someone in the police department was getting a kickback.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. But beach towns like this, we survive on tourism. Amplifying news about crimes does little to enhance our business model.”

“So you look the other way.”

“You’re being melodramatic, Mr. Kierce. But let’s also be realistic. If you had stayed, perhaps we would have tracked down the two people who committed this petty crime. That’s all it was. She wasn’treallydead, remember? Maybe they’d have been charged if you testified against them—but then you’d have to admit possessing illegal drugs in a foreign country. Do you see my point?”

“Clear as the Mediterranean Sea,” I say.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”